


Protector

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Frodo stumbles home.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Frodo Baggins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85





	Protector

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The path before him is more winding than usual, carrying him through a cornucopia of twists and turns that he dazedly fumbles through. At least it’s easy to know which way he’s going, because home is up the hill, so if he keeps going _up_ , he should be good. Then he realizes that he’s lost the path entirely, and Frodo staggers in a circle until he finds the dirt road. 

He tries to concentrate on his feet after that—one in front of the other. Boots come into the picture, and Frodo stops, squinting, because nobody wears boots in the Shire. The only reason he only even knows what they are is that every so often, Bilbo’s dwarves used to come and visit. 

Frodo steps forward, peering down, and his head nudges into something soft. He pulls back and squints up through the darkness of the night. A Man looks down at him. At least, Frodo thinks it’s a Man. Most likely a _man_. Maybe he’s so drunk that he’s just imagining a fellow hobbit is twice his height. But Frodo knows almost every hobbit in Hobbiton, and this man’s more handsome than all of them.

Donning a heady smile, Frodo hiccups, “Hello.” He lifts a hand, wanting to feel the man’s chin—it’s lined with dark stubble, vaguely reminiscent of a Dwarven beard. His hair is long and shaggy, but it looks soft to the touch. The man’s dark eyes are kind and deep—Frodo wants to know them. His hand only makes it halfway up the man’s chest, and then he forgets what he was doing with it and instead clutches onto the man’s brown tunic for support. 

The stranger places his hand over Frodo’s—twice as big. His fingers are long, calloused from work, a little dirty but so _warm_. Frodo hums happily at the contact. The midnight breeze is cool. He really does need to get home. 

The man tells him in a low, alluring voice, “You should not be wandering around after dark like this, my friend.”

It’s only an expression, but Frodo suddenly wishes they _were_ friends. He could use someone so attractive right about now—someone with a rich, earthy sent, who stands tall and stable, sturdy under Frodo’s swaying weight. Frodo opens his mouth and yawns, then mumbles, “Yes, I’d best get home... to a nice, warm... bed...” He leans closer still, eyes flickering up through his heavy lashes. Frodo’s well aware that it’s blasphemous to flirt with a _Man_ , but Frodo’s never cared much for hobbit propriety. He’s always liked the idea of _adventure_ and people far beyond his borders. This looks like the sort of person who could take him there. Frodo takes another step, pressing up against the man’s towering figure.

But the man steps back, one hand staying on Frodo’s shoulder, keeping him up. Frodo makes a quiet noise of displeasure. The stranger sighs. His fingers brush closer, touching the ends of Frodo’s curls. He murmurs, “You’re a very beautiful creature... but you are less tempting when you have ale on your breath.”

Frodo grins languidly and counters, “My breath will be clean enough come morning.”

The man chuckles. He doesn’t look convinced, but his grin is fond. Frodo likes it. 

Frodo asks, “What’s your name, Sir?”

“My name is of no importance,” the man smoothly answers. It’s deliberately evasive. Frodo can tell that even through his fog. 

He admits, “I might be smashed enough that I likely won’t remember it tomorrow anyway, so you may as well give me something.”

The man’s smile twitches. He relinquishes, “Strider.”

“Mm, Strider,” Frodo hums. “That makes sense... you must have very large... strides...”

Frodo reaches out again, meaning to lean up and nuzzle Strider’s jaw, but instead, he trips over his own feet. He falls into the man’s broad chest, and the man ducks down, easily sweeping him right up. Frodo’s breath hitches in surprise as he’s scooped into the air, held securely against the Strider’s strong body. 

Maybe Frodo should be scared when Strider starts walking, but he isn’t. He gets a good vibe from this man, and he’s always trusted his instinct. He half hopes they’re headed to the inn, or wherever Strider sleeps, so that Frodo can have a little fun before he sobers up. 

Instead, he’s carted up the hill, and then Strider carefully deposits him right on Bag End’s doorstep. Frodo blinks dazedly at his round door. In the back of his mind, he’s distantly aware that something’s _wrong_ , because how could this stranger possibly know where he lives? But in the moment, Frodo doesn’t care. He smiles up in thanks and asks, “Would you like to come in?”

Strider chuckles lightly. It’s a pretty sound that Frodo would like to hear beside his hearth, over a nice cup of tea, after they’ve had a pleasant round in the sack. Strider reaches down to cup Frodo’s cheek, thumb gently stroking his skin. Then Strider uses that grip to tilt Frodo up, and he leans down for a lingering but chaste kiss to Frodo’s forehead. Frodo mewls, wanting more. 

But Strider withdraws. He murmurs, “Perhaps one day... but not tonight. Go inside now and be safe, Frodo Baggins.”

Frodo doesn’t remember giving his name. But he is very tired. And he feels compelled to listen—Strider sounds quite wise. 

He yawns, “Thank you,” and does so.


End file.
